Against the Ropes (20 page)

The way her breath hitched at the end, as if she were
swallowing back tears, gutted him. “No, baby, you won't get fired.”

“You can't know that.”

“I can, because I won't let it happen.” He had no clue how, but the promise sort of just spilled out, and he knew in that moment he'd do almost anything to keep it. “First we—”

“Stop,” she said quietly. “Please, just for a minute . . . can you not fix it? For a minute, just let me be scared and hold me and not do or say anything logical for sixty seconds?”

Wrapping his arms tighter around her, he murmured, “Yeah, sure,” and let her cry for a minute. After the tears slowed, he waited until her breathing had caught up to his, mimicking the rhythm of his chest rising and falling. And he knew the storm was past.

“Better?” he asked against her hair.

“Thank you.” She nuzzled his neck. “You can fix it now.”

He chuckled. “Oh, can I?”

“I know you can . . . but it's mine to fix, I guess.” She sighed and sat up straight. He instantly hated the distance between them. She grabbed the paper behind her and stared at it a moment. “What's this guy's deal, anyway? He's got a personal vendetta against the team.”

“Maybe that's for you to find out.” He stroked her hair once more, then stood. “I need to get dressed for practice.”

“Oh, right. Of course.” Following his lead, she started picking out her clothes for the day. “I've got to grab a shower first. Will you be here when I get out?”

“Nah, I've gotta hit up my place for clothes. I'll take off.” He kissed her briefly, then longer until she melted against him. One bare foot rubbed against his calf, and he was half-tempted to toss her on the bed and work out their frustrations together.

But they both had work. Work centered them, and he knew she'd feel worse if he made her late. So off to work they both went.

With his promise echoing in his head.

*   *   *

REAGAN
sat in the lobby of the reserved, surprisingly small office of the Jacksonville newspaper. It wasn't a large publication, and online media had eaten up a great deal of its readership as she'd come to find out. Each year, the paper seemed to shrink in terms of staffers. Perhaps their rabid reporter was working on a sensationalistic angle because of fear of being let go.

Not that she excused his choices. No way. But she could definitely understand the flames of failure licking at your heels.

“Ms. Robilard?” David Cruise stepped out from a hallway and looked surprised. He wore a pair of perfectly pressed pants, shiny shoes, and—to her surprise—a T-shirt instead of collared shirt or suit jacket like he had when at the gym interviewing the team. “I hear you're here to see me?”

“Yes, I . . .” She blinked, then picked up her bag. “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”

His eyes darkened, and she could see his mouth twitching behind his beard. But he led the way through a general work area with cubicles to what she assumed was a generic conference room. The lack of noise was disconcerting. Where were the staffers running around with coffee or the journalists barking into phones demanding quotes for articles? It was nothing like what she'd expected, based off movies and television. The few individuals who were there seemed very relaxed, and it was mostly empty.

“Everyone's out on assignment,” he said, as if reading her mind, before shutting the door. “I only have a few minutes. I have a meeting soon.”

“I won't take much of your time.” She put her bag on the table and pulled out a file folder. Laying it down, she opened it and pulled out a few sheets to slide across the table toward him. “A year ago, you were writing home and garden pieces. You had nothing to do with sports, or base activity. Those
were the work of other journalists at the paper. Those journalists are still here. Why did you get the assignment to interview the boxing team?”

He glanced down quickly at the old articles of his she'd printed from online, then back at her. “I'm given assignments, same as everyone else. It's how the paper works. Sometimes, you have to fill in.”

“Did you always want to cover sports?” she asked idly, looking through the three articles he'd written thus far on the team. “Is this a step up for you? In the right direction?”

The reporter crossed his arms and scowled. “I have no clue where this is going, Ms. Robilard, but I'm the reporter here. I don't get interrogated.”

“I think,” she went on, “that you thought you had a story and you ran with it. I think maybe, just maybe, someone has been feeding you information on the goings-on in the gym, with the team, et cetera. And that's why you asked for the assignment, well out of your comfort zone.”

“I think you've got a lot of nerve. I don't have to tell you a goddamn thing.”

“Fine.” She stood. “Just tell me who leaked you the info about the bus being vandalized and I can leave you be.” When he raised a brow, she shrugged. “I can be accommodating. I have better ways to spend my time than being here, so let's all move on.”

He laughed. Actually laughed, so hard and so loudly that even with the door closed, several people from the main room turned to stare. Reagan felt the heat creep up her neck and burn her cheeks. So maybe this wasn't the best idea. Actually, now that she thought it through, it was a horrible, stupid idea.

Oh, God. How dumb could she be?

“You think . . .” He gasped and grabbed his big belly, huffing a little with the laugh. “You think I'd just give you a source? For what? No, wait, let me guess.” He laughed so wide he looked like a deranged jack-o'-lantern. “Because you're so pretty and people just hand you things. Ha!”

Do. Not. Cry. Don't you dare cry.

“Apparently not.” Mustering up every single ounce of dignity she could find—which sadly, was very little—she stood, putting the file back in her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. “Have a good day, Mr. Cruise.”

He was still laughing as she left the room, and his stupid laugh echoed through the hall until she left the building. But she managed to not cry until she was in her car.

20

“S
o you're saying it didn't go well,” Marianne said later that afternoon at Back Gate.

“I'm saying, if Satan had opened a portal right there, crooked his finger and said, ‘Come on in, the water's fine,' I would have jumped willingly.” Reagan took a sip of her water, wishing it were something stronger. So, so much stronger. But the bar was crowded and they'd be waiting a few minutes for their ordered drinks. “You didn't cancel any plans with Brad to meet tonight, did you?”

Marianne made a face that said,
Come on, really?
“Hell no. He's a big boy and can keep himself entertained for a few hours while I have a healthy bitch session. Plus,” she added as the server put down their drinks, “I think he and the guys were having a late-night practice or something.”

Reagan paused with the drink halfway to her lips. “How are they getting into the gym?”

“At Graham's house,” Marianne clarified, just as Kara sat in the third seat. “I ordered for you. I figured bottle was your choice.”

“Read my mind,” Kara said fervently. “Mmm. I have approximately two hours before I have to pick up Zach, so I can have exactly one more before I'm back to water.”

“Babysitter?” Reagan asked, grateful to avoid the topic of her crying like a wuss on the way back from her meeting with Mr. Journalist.

“Uh, no. I mean yes, but no.” Flustered, which was unusual for her, Kara set her drink down and looked through her purse a moment. Reagan knew that routine. It was the I'm-avoiding-eye-contact-by-pretending-to-search-for-my-lip-balm routine.

“Spill!” Marianne poked her friend in the arm. “What's going on with the babysitter?”

“I couldn't get one. So I texted you, but you didn't answer.”

Marianne's brow crinkled, and she dug in her back pocket for her phone. When she glanced, she winced. “Sorry, it was on silent. Oh, hey, look.” She showed her phone to Reagan. “Kara can't make it, no babysitter.”

Reagan sipped her drink and smiled. “Shame.”

“Anyway,” Kara said more forcefully. “When you didn't answer, I tried texting Brad, because I figured maybe you two were still together and you hadn't left yet. So he could pass on the message.” Kara smiled at Reagan smugly and added in a side voice, “Brad answers his phone in a timely manner.”

Marianne blew a raspberry.

“Moving along.” Kara took another sip, closed her eyes in reverence, and continued, “He informed me you had already left, but to hold tight and he would come get Zach himself, because he didn't want me to miss out on the fun.”

“Aww,” Reagan said, her heart lifting a little. When she glanced at Marianne, her friend simply had a small, knowing smile on her face.

“But then ten minutes later, the person knocking on my door wasn't Brad. It was Graham Sweeney,” she finished in a whisper.

Reagan glanced around, then leaned in. “Why are we whispering?”

“Because.” Kara threw her a dirty look. “It's . . . he's . . . I don't know.”

“Cute,” Reagan supplied.

“Sexy,” was Marianne's contribution.

“Pointless,” Kara finished. “The whole thing is pointless. I know he's hitting on me. And I think he had a good time with Zach the other night. I'm not one of those people trying to use my kid to shelter me from life.” She paused after sipping, glancing to Marianne for confirmation.

Marianne shrugged one shoulder and nodded.

“So while I appreciate the interest, it's just pointless. And for completely legit reasons.”

Reagan waited a moment, wracking her brain. “Because he eats small children for breakfast?”

Kara scowled at her. “Be serious.”

Finally, Reagan admitted, “I don't get it. What are the reasons?”

“Baby daddy drama,” Marianne said, grinning when Kara pushed at her.

“You know I hate that phrase.
Baby daddy
,” she said in a mocking tone. But she sighed. “But she's not wrong. Or not entirely. Graham's in the military. He'll eventually leave. I can't. I'm here until Zach graduates, at least. What's the point of starting something with someone if you can't move with them when they go?”

“Oh.” That hadn't occurred to Reagan. “But kids move all the time. Zach could adjust to a new location. He's a smart, good kid.”

“I can't leave the state,” Kara explained.

“So his dad is involved in his life?”

“Only as much as he can get away with, which is very little. It's his way of controlling him—me—us.” Kara's fingers tightened around her glass, then she set it down with a delicate clink. “Moving on . . . how was your day and why
are we here sucking down drinks that don't taste nearly as good as they look?”

“Because I screwed up at my job. I'm screwing up all over the place. I confronted that reporter, trying to get a name for the source.” She laughed, but it was humorless, and covered her face with her hands. Delayed embarrassment—wave two—hit her like a tsunami. “God, how stupid am I? What person waltzes into a newspaper and just expects to be handed a source because they asked nicely?”

“A really kind one?” Kara offered, rubbing a soothing hand up and down Reagan's back. “You didn't know, that's not your fault.”

“I didn't know. But that
is
my fault. It's my problem. This might have ended if I'd been more forceful. If I'd been more take-charge.” She sighed and finished her drink in one swift gulp. “Or if I'd just known what the hell I was doing. How naïve am I?”

She didn't miss the looks Kara and Marianne exchanged as they waited for her to continue. But what more was there to say?

“So let me get this straight.” Marianne waved her hand for the waitress, indicated they wanted another round, waved thank-you, then settled back in her chair, fingers twirling her empty glass. “You're responsible for all the vandalism happening around the team.”

“No, I didn't say that.”

“But you did say it wouldn't have happened if you'd been better at your job,” Kara pointed out.

Thanks for the backup . . .

“What I meant was—”

Marianne cut her off. “You did something proactive, albeit a bit naïve, to attempt to shake loose the culprit, and you're beating yourself up for it because it didn't work.”

“I'm not beating myself up, I'm—”

“Having a pity party, which is totally logical,” Kara said kindly. “But can't last forever. I've only got one more drink in me.”

“So I get exactly two cocktails' worth of pity, and then I have to . . . what?” Reagan frowned at her empty glass, which apparently represented exactly half the amount of pity she was allotted.

“Put on your big girl panties and try something new.”

“And if I fail?”

“Then you did your best.”

She closed her eyes a moment. “Then I have to head back to Wisconsin, the loser who thought she was better than her friends and family, and failed miserably. Not to mention leaving Greg behind.”

The three women were silent while their replacement drinks were laid down.

“Which part of that is bothering you more?” Marianne waited a half second. “I'm guessing the second part. The part about leaving Greg behind if you get fired.”

“Which you won't be,” Kara added firmly.

“You can't know that.” God, she was being so damn sulky. But it felt just a little good . . .

“I can be positive. It costs nothing and is scientifically proven to jump-start your metabolism and creativity. What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I'm just adding
bitchy
to my pity party attitude. I have one more drink to shake it off, apparently, so I'm going hog wild.”

“Go for it.” Marianne tapped her glass with Reagan's in a ‘cheers' gesture and sipped. “My mom is fantastic at pity parties. I remember when I got my first period, and I felt like shit.”

Both Kara and Reagan groaned in remembered pain.

“So while I was taking a nap with a heating pad, she decorated the kitchen table with pads and tampons—did you know tampons can make a pretty impressive garland?—and when I woke up she had made red Kool-Aid and cookies with strawberry jam on them for snacks.”

Kara grinned.

Reagan recoiled. “That sounds horrifying.”

“It was, for about seven seconds. Then I laughed. What the hell else was I gonna do? I still had my period, but I could laugh about it.” Marianne nodded. “Moral of the story . . . be able to laugh. It really cuts the party short and helps you move on with life with a better outlook.”

“I wasn't done with my second drink,” Reagan said, but she felt her lips curve in a ghost of a smile. “But thanks.”

“Are we ignoring that you bypassed the whole ‘How I Feel About Greg' essay? Because I, for one, have not.” Kara waved her hand in a come-on 'gesture. “Let's hear it.”

“So . . . I'm in love.” When the other two women sighed, she added, “Don't get all gooey on me. I'm not even sure if I like it.”

“You'll love it,” Marianne said with confidence. “And if you don't, then just wait five minutes. Kind of like the weather in the Midwest, I hear. Love constantly changes at the drop of a hat. One minute you're ready to tackle the guy because you can't keep your hands off him and you want to kiss him all the time, and then the next you're ready to beat him with a sock of oranges until he apologizes for implying you suck at cooking.”

“But you do suck at cooking,” Kara said.

“He's not supposed to
say
that, though.” Marianne rolled her eyes. “The point is, if you're in love, it's a good thing, even if it doesn't feel like it at the moment. Give it a few minutes and you'll have a new perspective on the whole thing. It's ever-changing.”

“That sounds like the world's worst roller coaster,” Reagan grumbled.

“It is,” both Kara and Marianne said in unison.

*   *   *

“SO,
men, what's first on the list of videos?” Greg settled into the couch and propped his feet up on Graham's coffee table, a beer in his hand and a plate of finger foods on his stomach.

Zach eyed him warily. “You're not supposed to do that.”

“What?” Greg looked around, found nothing wrong.

“Put your feet on the coffee table. It scuffs the wood.”

“Zach, my man.” Graham handed him a water and a bag of unopened Oreos. “You're in a man's house now. We scratch, we belch, we fart, and we put our feet on the furniture.”

“It's as God intended,” Greg agreed.

“Don't listen to these idiots.” Brad settled himself in the corner of the couch, his beer on a coaster and his feet firmly on the floor. “If your mom says to keep your feet off the furniture, do it.”

“Fun vampire,” Greg muttered. Then he watched as Zach tore the Oreo package open. “Are you supposed to have those? Should we call your mom first?”

Zach glared at him and popped one in his mouth, as if to show him exactly what he thought of Greg's plan to tattle.

“It's all good.” Graham smiled and toasted their young guest with his own bottle of water. “I got them because I saw them in Kara's pantry. She wouldn't stock anything he couldn't eat or drink.”

“Except the alcohol. She's got a lot of wine,” Zach said, so easily and with the ringing endorsement of innocence behind it. Greg nearly spit his beer out laughing. “What? She does. But I couldn't have that even without my allergies.”

“Good call,” Brad said easily. “First video, we've got some video from our scrimmage at Paris Island. I really want to pick up some additional notes on . . .”

Greg tuned him out. He just wanted to watch some damn good boxing, eat some good food, drink a beer or two and bask in being with friends outside of practice.

As they watched, Brad asked casually, “So how's Reagan doing?”

“Stressed.” Without taking his eyes off the screen, he reached for his beer. “Why?”

“Just thought maybe you two were taking it up a notch,
what with you two spending the night together the last few nights.”

Greg did choke on his beer this time, and he reached for a paper towel from the roll Graham had set on the coffee table. “What the . . . how did you know that?”

“You weren't in our room last night.”

“But on the road, we were in separate rooms.” He had a sinking suspicion. “Does everyone know?”

“No.” Brad shook his head. “I knocked on your door to ask you a question the other night and you were conveniently missing. Then you and Reagan showed up within minutes of each other at the bus the next morning and . . .” He lifted one shoulder. “I put two and two together.”

“Guys.” Graham motioned to Zach, who was staring at them with wide-eyed fascination. “Maybe we could leave the girlfriend chatter for when the runt is home?”

“I'm fine,” he said quickly. “I know adults hang out and stuff.”

“Oh, really?” Smiling now, Greg settled back. “We hang out?”

Graham shot him a look that warned him not to take it too far. As if Greg were that big of an asshole. He knew when something was over a ten-year-old's head.

“Yeah.” Zach nodded wisely. “Grown up guys and girls hang out. It's just what they do.”

“But not ten-year-old guys and girls,” Greg teased, and watched Zach blush and stare intensely at his Oreo.

“The video is still on,” Brad said mildly. “In case any of you actually care.”

Graham and Greg looked at each other, grinned and said, “Nah.”

*   *   *

REAGAN
opened her door, relieved to find Greg there. As much as she had needed the girl time to drink cocktails, bitch, complain and generally get the worst of the day out of
her system, there was something about having Greg nearby that settled and soothed her more than an entire vat of cocktails could.